


Waning

by AniPendragon



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AniPendragon/pseuds/AniPendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Waxer and Boil and the relationship they shared - from the first time they laid eyes on each other until the last. A five times plus one fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waning

**1\. First Meetings**

Boil had been off Kamino for no more than a month when he was reassigned to the 212th. General Obi-Wan Kenobi’s troop was famous, albeit not as famous as General Anakin Skywalker’s 501st legion, and he was honoured to have been chosen. Arriving on ship he had been assigned to a room and then nudged in the direction of the mess hall. Friendship and trust went a long way in strengthening a troop, Boil had been told on Kamino, though he had never found reason to show such weakness. He was a soldier. Soldiers did not show weakness.

“-And then he says “That’s no goat, that’s my wife!” Boil entered to the punchline of an unheard joke erupting laughter from what seemed to be half of the 212th. A man with a short cut goatee looked up from where he sat atop a table. He had been the one to deliver the joke, it seemed. The fellow clone grinned when he saw Boil and raised a hand in greeting. Several dozen identical faces swiveled to look at Boil. The soldier tensed, suddenly self-conscious of his unmarked armour. Punch line clone hopped off the table and sauntered toward him, slinging an arm over his shoulders. Boil tensed further, attempting to brush off the arm.

“Looks like we got ourselves a Shiny, boys, should we repeat the joke so he don’t feel left out?” The man grinned, all teeth and harsh eyes. Boil swallowed hard, his eyes swivelling. He was the only regulation man of the entire room, it felt like: regulation haircut, clean shaven, and not a drop of ink on his skin or his armour. The only clone in a room full of identical men. He fiddled with his bucket, staring down at it in his hands.

“You got a name?”

“Boil.” He didn’t look up, willing silently for the clone to remove his arm.

“I’m Waxer.” The tone was friendly, surprising enough that Boil looked up and over to his fellow soldier. The man stuck out his free hand and grinned wider. “Welcome to the two twelve.”

**2\. First Fights**

“Left!” shouted one man.

“Take cover!” shouted another brother. The comms exploded into sound as the battle picked up in intensity. Boil lay atop one of the buildings, one eye glued to the scope of his sniper rifle. His fingers shook when he took them off the triggers, so he kept them on.

“We need cover!” He shot, picking off the droids as quickly as his numb fingers would allow him to. One dropped, then another, then another. Boil breathed deeply, listening for the words of his friend.

“Nice work, boys.”

“Fucking clankers! Worst fucking things in the whole – fuck!” An explosion. Boil cringed; the voice had to belong to Waxer. He was the only soldier so crass in the whole of the two-twelve. At least, he was the only one who swore like that in front of the Generals.

“Sure you don’t need a hand down there?” asked Boil, his voice a calm ripple in the shouts. Through his scope, he saw Waxer turn and flip him off. His armour was more marked, his bucket was askew and he was slightly hunched over, but he seemed fine.

“Just keep shooting, ya damn Shiny.”

“Not so shiny after this,” muttered Boil. He could have sworn Waxer was smirking behind his visor when he turned back to the battle.

Shots rang out, curses rippled across the comms, blaster shots zipped across the field, and cannons boomed. A scream, then another, momentary static. Two brothers had just died. More kept dying, their names and bodies forgotten as the men kept marching. A stray blaster bolt caught one of the men in the shoulder. He dropped. In his ear, Boil heard a rookie shouting apologies. Again, he reminded himself that he wasn’t much older than them, even if he felt it.

“…That offer for help still up?” Waxer’s voice was low and hoarse. Boil nodded and whistled to the other snipers, gesturing for them to follow him. They repelled down the building and swung wide around the clankers, taking them from behind. Commandos, B-1s and rollers fell around them, the tanks exploding as they darted in and out. Boil found Waxer pinned under a fallen steel panel and hauled him out, shoving him toward the rest of the troops. An explosion knocked the two off their feet as the remaining clankers were vaporized. Cheers erupted in Boil’s ears and he hauled off his helmet. The cheers weren’t quite as loud outside, but they still made his head ring.

“Not bad,” said Waxer. Then he grinned. “For a Shiny.” Boil smirked and shoved himself to his feet, surveying his now dented and dirt smeared armour.

“Who you calling shiny, cueball?” he asked, folding his arms. Waxer laughed, a low rumble in his throat.

“You’re alright,” he said, grinning.

**3\. First Realizations**

In the aftermath of the battle on Ryloth and meeting Numa, Boil found himself more silent than before. His sharp tongue dealt sharper words to all those who dared to disturb his thinking, and he spent much of his time in the room he shared with Waxer and, well, no one, considering their rookie bunkmates had died on Ryloth. That bothered him, losing those rookies, but death was a part of the war. He had seen dozens of brothers die and he took it well enough. He could still sleep, still eat, still live with a sense of purpose. That was better than some, and from what he’d heard he was doing better than Captain Rex, who had reportedly snapped two punching bags off the hook within a few hours of being let out of the med bay. Boil wasn’t sure what Rex and Torrent Company had been up to, but he could only assume it hadn’t ended well.

His own battle had gone well. Commander Cody and General Kenobi had commended himself and Waxer on a job well done, and seeing Numa reunited with her family had left him feeling good about their work. A kid like Numa helped ground a man in battle, and served to show him and Waxer that they were fighting a good fight, that they were making a difference. Waxer had said as much when they got back on the ship.

Now that Boil took the time to think about it, he found his thoughts drifted to Waxer more and more as time went on. He thought of Waxer when he heard a good joke in the mess, wondering if the other soldier had heard of it. He thought of Waxer when the brothers made bets on spars, thinking that Waxer could beat them all. In the weeks that followed after the events on Ryloth, more and more of his thoughts turned to the man who had shaved off his goatee for a soul patch, a man who would have given up everything for Numa. He wondered if Waxer, like Boil himself, wanted to go back for Numa, wanted to train her, raise her, be her brother for more than just a day. Boil closed his eyes and sighed, thinking.

The door slid open and Boil didn’t have to open his eyes to know it was Waxer. He hadn’t left his room for almost two days now except for food, he wondered when the man would come looking for him.

“We’re sparring tonight, wanted to know if you wanted to fight.” Boil rolled his eyes at Waxer’s words and sat him.

“Yes. I would love to get a third infraction and spend the next week scrubbing floors with rags on my hands and knees,” he said sharply. Waxer twitched, grimacing.

“Right. Sorry.” He turned to leave.

“Wait, Waxer, I didn’t mean-“ Waxer turned and Boil’s words caught in his throat. The other soldier was smiling. Not a smirk, not a smug or sly grin, but a genuine smile – just like the one he’d given Numa on Ryloth. No, not quite like that. This was less gentle, more reassuring and friendly.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Waxer. “We all have our days.” Boil nodded, swallowed, and watched Waxer walk out of the room. When the door slid shut, he fell back on his bunk, closing his eyes and groaning. His thoughts sorted themselves out surprisingly quickly and he found himself faced with a simple truth he’d known for quite some time. He cared for Waxer, far more than a brother did for a brother.

That in itself wasn’t too hard to swallow. There were stories, of course, of brothers finding love with other brothers. Spending so long in the company of only a handful of men, you wondered if it was possible. They were whispered stories, not due to shame but due to respect. A man’s heart was his own and the other men respected that privacy. Names never passed lips, but sometimes you could tell. Sometimes you saw two men whose hands lingered too long when they passed datapads, or saw the gentle look of one brother to another when they came back from a mission alive. Boil had seen soldiers spend far more time at one other’s bedside than any other soldier. He knew what it meant, in the back of his mind. Everyone did. It simply wasn’t talked about, because it wasn’t their business.

He wondered what Waxer would think, if he knew. Wondered what Waxer did think, of the stories. He wondered if he should say something, or simply pretend nothing had changed. They were friends, soldiers, brothers. They were as close as two men in the army could be without being something more. Boil knew that. Most of the 212th knew that. The only two that even came close to being as close as they were, were Fives and Echo of the 501st. Granted, losing your entire troop in the span of a day did that to a man, made him think about who he cared about, and why. Little things like Echo’s insistence on being by the book, like Five’s stupid sense of humour that he seemed to have inherited from Cut-Up, all that didn’t seem to matter. Things like Waxer’s stupid bald head that he swore the man polished, or the way he stroked his facial hair when he was thinking, the way he always grinned when things seemed good, and kept smiling long after everyone else had stopped. They were good traits. Traits Boil had once been annoyed with, had once snapped at. But Waxer’s ability to pull him out of his sarcastic shell, to bring him into the light and show him what an amazing place the universe was with as simple an action as taking off his bucket for a little girl, that scared him. Because no one else had ever done that. No one else, not in training, not on the field, not before he was assigned to the 212th, and not after, had ever been able to make him feel so vulnerable and so safe at the same time. That was more than scary, that was terrifying.

A sigh escaped Boil’s lips and he rolled onto his side, drifting. When he fell asleep only a few minutes later, he still hadn’t decided what to do.

**4\. First Admissions**

Boil sat balanced on the balls of his feet, Waxer’s ankle resting on his knees. The cut ran up the side of Waxer’s leg, stopping an inch short of both his knee and his ankle. Boil shook his head and cleaned the wound slowly, shifting so he wasn’t so uncomfortable, crouched in the dirt.

“Leave it, you can’t fix it,” said Waxer.

“I can clean it, and that’s just as important,” replied Boil. He wiped down the edges of the cut with a damp cloth, grimacing at the depth of the wound. It would need stitches, and Boil’s were messy at best. “How you get in to these situations…” Boil muttered, trailing off. Waxer grinned down at him, his stupid moustache grinning with him.

“I was trying to save you, if I recall correctly,” he said.

“Didn’t need saving.” Waxer’s grin fell, his expression suddenly soft. He looked away, nodding.

“Yeah, maybe not.” He shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for worrying.”

“Of course I can, and I’m going to question you needlessly over it,” quipped Boil, voice deadpan. Waxer stared at him, lips parted, then grinned again.

“You are such an ass.” He shook his head. “I love that.” Boil’s hands froze a moment, then he pulled the needle from the kit at his belt.

“This is going to sting,” he said, focusing on the wound. Waxer was silent. The needle pierced the edge of Waxer’s skin, slipping in and out as he sewed the wound shut. One of Waxer’s hands fell to Boil’s shoulder and he closed his eyes, gripping tightly. Boil tensed but made no move to remove the hand, knowing from experience how much this hurt without anything to dull the pain.

“Should’a got me drunk first,” muttered Waxer.

“No drinking on the job,” said Boil.

Waxer snorted. “Hard ass.”

“Better than being a Hardcase.” Waxer cringed, opening his eyes. Boil looked up at the man and grimaced as well. Hardcase was the strangest brother that either of them had ever met. It was a running joke in the two-twelve that you’d rather be droid bait than Hardcase.

“Ever wonder what he thinks of that?”

“Probably thinks it’s funny. Like everything else.”

“Yeah.” Waxer’s voice was soft, a change from before. Boil coughed and finished his stitching, stumbling back from Waxer and landing on his ass. He grimaced, brothers weren’t exactly known for being the most graceful of people, but that was ridiculous. Boil looked at his feet, annoyed, and a hand came into view. When he looked up, he saw Waxer standing, one hand extended to help Boil to his feet. His armour was sealed up again around his leg, the panels easily closed after the work was done.  
Boil took the hand gratefully and let Waxer help him to his feet. Once he was standing, Waxer didn’t immediately let go of his hand.

“Waxer?”

“I’m glad it’s you,” said Waxer, his voice quiet. “That I got stuck with on Ryloth, that I found Numa with, that I’m with now.” He pressed his lips together tightly before continuing. “I’m glad it was you. Glad that it’s still you.” Boil blinked a few times, running the words over in his mind. A confession, though not as open as Echo’s cheesy romance holos (the ones he denied having) would have him believe. It fit though. It fit the way they did everything together – with words that only they understood. Boil took a step forward and leaned his forehead against Waxer’s, cracking a smile.

“I’m glad it was me too,” he replied.

**5\. First Injuries**

Simultaneous battling across the galaxy often meant that Boil wasn’t always aware of everything that was going on. His last memories before awakening in a medical bay bed were of the battle field and falling. When he opened his eyes, however, he was in the aforementioned bed, and Captain Rex was in the bed next to him – stripped down, bandaged, and bacta smeared. On his other side was Waxer, who sat on one of the uncomfortable metal chairs that were kept in the room. He held one of Boil’s hands between both of his own, his expression making his worry easily noticed.

“You’re awake,” breathed Waxer. Captain Rex was the only other man in the room and his snores revealed his unconscious state. Still, Boil answered Waxer in a voice not much louder than the other man’s.

“Yeah.” He grimaced against the light, and then grimaced harder when he felt the pull in his neck and the bandages that accompanied the pull. Waxer pressed a chaste kiss to his hand, a gesture that Boil recognized from the holos.

“You been watching those holos with Echo while I was asleep?” he asked, trying to smile. Waxer’s expression fell, a sadness sweeping over his eyes. “Waxer? What happened?”

“Echo’s dead.” The words were spoken more loudly than before, almost a normal tone. “He died in the citadel.”

“Oh Hell,” said Boil. He closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn’t known Echo incredibly well, as they had been on different squads. But because General Kenobi and General Skywalker spent so much time together, the squads often did as well. As such, Echo and Fives had spent some time with Waxer and Boil. They were two pairs that were opposites, one set brothers, the other something else entirely. Still, they had gotten along well enough and they often played Sabacc together in the mess when they were off duty.

“How’s-”

“Not well. He’s going back and forth between beating the shit out of anyone willing to spar with him and locking himself in their room,” said Waxer. Boil nodded, opening his eyes and looking at their joined hands. Their relationship had been different; the two had been brothers until the end, willing to do anything for one another. He wondered if that made it harder or easily for Fives to lose Echo, then realized there was no comparison. Fives had lost the last person in his squad, his closest friend, and his battle brother. There were no words to express how devastated the man must have been, no words to express his sorry for his friend. Boil said nothing, for there was nothing to say.

“He’ll come around and he’ll pull through. He’s got us. We’ll help him.” Waxer smiled an easy smile, as though nothing was wrong with the universe.

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He will,” said Waxer firmly. Then, more quietly, “He was to.” Boil pushed himself up and tugged Waxer closer, heedless of Captain Rex sleeping in the bed next to them. Waxer came forward, leaned over the bed and blinking in confusion. Without hesitating, Boil leaned forward the last few inches and pressed his lips to Waxer’s in a soft kiss. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against Waxer’s and opened his eyes, snaking one hand around the back of the other man’s neck.

“Ever the optimist,” murmured Boil.

“One of us has to be,” replied Waxer, kissing his nose.

“I could be the optimist if I wanted to,” said Boil.

“Sure you could.”

“Hey!” Boil laughed, a soft chuckle that made him shake. “I’m supposed to be the sarcastic one.” They both smiled at one another, glad to be alive.

**\+ 1. Last Goodbyes**

“I don’t like this.” The words hung in the air between them as Waxer geared up. Boil was one of the men staying behind at the base they had captured. Waxer picked up a gun and slung it over his shoulder, frowning.

“Boil, please. If the General says they’ve taken our armour, then they’ve taken our armour. He’s a Jedi. They don’t make up false orders.” Boil frowned and folded his arms across his chest, leaning back against the wall of the armoury. They were alone down here, Waxer being the last to gear up before they left. Distantly, Boil wondered if that was by design or coincidence. He and Waxer weren’t the biggest secret in the two-twelve, there were brothers who knew. But no one ever says anything, and for that, Boil was grateful, he wasn’t sure how he’d react if confronted.

“Right, because we’ve never been betrayed before.” The words were sharper than he meant them to be. Waxer tensed.

“Why don’t you like him?” asked Waxer, one hand skimming the helmet he had left on the table.

“He calls us by number, not name. He thinks we’re flesh droids, and that he’s better than us.” Boil pushed off the wall, hands balled into fists. “He thinks we’re expendable.”

“We are expendable.”

“Don’t!” shouted Boil, slamming a fist into the table. “Don’t talk like that. We are men. We are people. We have thoughts, dreams, and feelings.” His voice cracked on the last word. “We don’t deserve to die because of him.”

“Boil…”

“Don’t.” He turned away, folding his arms. Waxer slipped up behind him and wrapped his arms around the other man’s middle.

“Why do you worry so much?”

“I’m just trying to keep you alive,” he mumbled.

“You’ve said that before, and remember what happened then?” Boil smiled, remembering the little girl with her smiling face, her foreign word which sounded so sweet in his ears, and sweeter when he learned what it meant.

“Yeah.”

“So trust me. I’m coming back.” He kissed the man’s cheek. “I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” said Boil, slipping from his arms. Waxer grinned, one hand on his hip.

“Then I’ll just have to make it back alive, won’t I?” he teased. Boil’s expression didn’t change. Waxer sighed and stepped forward, pressing his forehead to Boil’s and cupping the other man’s cheek.

“I love you,” whispered Waxer. Boil blinked. He knew, of course, but that the first time either of them had ever said it aloud.

“I love you too,” Boil replied, dumbstruck. Waxer kissed him, deep and needy, pouring everything he had into the simple gesture. Pulling back, he picked up his helmet and walked toward the door. He flashed Boil one of his signature grins and then pulled on his bucket, stepping out the door. And that was the last time Boil ever saw him.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been fascinated with the untold story of Waxer and Boil, who I thought would be wonderful friends after the Ryloth arc. After reading "After The War" by Elektra Pendragon (which I definitely recommend) the idea of them as a couple crossed my mind. From there, this idea was formed.


End file.
